Patched Up
by Singerdiva01
Summary: Missing scene from 3.8, Unfinished Business. After Admiral Adama dukes it out with the Chief, President Roslin escorts him back to his quarters to begin patching up his wounds, physical and otherwise. K for mild language. Canon.


Bill Adama fixed his crew with a final stern look before slipping under the ropes and out of the ring.

"Madam President," he said, taking her outstretched hand in his wrapped fist.

"Admiral."

She placed her other hand gently on the back of his arm, sneaking a glance at his bloodied face. She led him out of the hangar, Dr. Cottle close on their heels.

As they stepped into the hall, the white-haired doctor addressed the commanding officer gruffly. "Come on, you crazy old man. Let's get you to Life Station and see what you've done to yourself."

Bill looked at Laura and gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

"I can take it from here, Doctor. I cleaned up after a lot of fights in my youth. I'll escort the Admiral to his quarters and get him patched up. I'll give you a ring if I find anything more serious than a wounded ego."

The doctor looked from the President to the Admiral and rolled his eyes. "He's all yours, Madam. Gods know why you want him." He stalked off, muttering curses under his breath.

**Admiral Adama's Quarters, Battlestar Galactica**

Laura struggled to open the hatch to his quarters with the arm her wounded warrior wasn't clinging to in order to stay upright. Once inside, she flipped on a light and started to lead him to the couch. They got within feet of their destination before he stumbled, releasing the President just before catching himself on the sharp edge of the table.

"Oh my Gods, Bill!" When the Admiral looked up at her sheepishly from the floor, she heaved a resigned sigh and bent slightly to put her arms under his, groaning audibly as she all but lifted the much bigger man the short distance to the couch.

They landed roughly side by side on the cushions, breathing heavily. He smiled playfully at her. "I suppose carrying the weight of the military is just part of your job, Madam President?"

Rolling her eyes, she turned to switch on the lamp near his head and squinted behind her glasses as the bright light revealed the nasty cuts and budding bruises on his weathered face.

"You, Admiral, are going to sit right there while I get some towels and a med kit. You can consider that a direct order." She lifted herself off the couch and walked to the head, raising her voice so she could talk to him from the other room.

"And the press says I have a flair for the dramatic. Gods, Bill, I know why you did it but did you really have to get yourself beaten to a pulp to make a point?" She found a clean towel and placed it under the cold water in the sink. She set to rummaging through his cabinet for medical supplies, noticing for the first time that the military man kept his toiletries neatly organized. She let herself wonder for a moment how he would react to the cluttered chaos that was her private space on Colonial One, then noted how quickly that thought turned to wondering how they would negotiate living together. 'You are getting far, far ahead of yourself, Roslin,' she chastised silently, grabbing the supplies and heading out the door.

"Actually, speaking of the press, I can't wait for the civilian rumor mill to hear that one of your men beat the shit out of you and I sat there and watched…" She stopped as Bill came into view. His eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be listening to her chatter.

She quickened her pace and raised her voice. "Oh, no, mister. You've probably got yourself a concussion and you are not allowed to go to sleep yet." She stood directly over him. "Bill, are you listening to me? Bill?"

She bent quickly, running her hand through his hair and getting closer to his bleeding ear. "Bill, wake up." The Admiral didn't move and panic began rising in her voice. "Bill, wake up right now." No response. "Bill, wake up right now or I'm calling Dr. Cottle," she threatened, her voice rising to an unusually high pitch at the end of the sentence.

The older man stirred, shaking his head to clear the fog. He immediately regretted the motion. He opened his eyes to find the President just inches from his face.

She sunk back and her hand went to her chest reflexively as she sighed with relief.

"Ok, ok, ok. Laura, I'm alright. Don't look so worried."

She remembered when she found herself directing those words at him with alarming frequency. She wondered if she'd been more convincing.

"You scared me a little there, Bill." She tried to keep her voice light but it came out instead just a level above a whisper.

Something about the exchange also reminded the Admiral of the battle she'd almost lost to cancer. Those thoughts always caused a lump to rise in his throat, which hadn't completely cleared when he spoke.

"Just a tiny taste of how badly you've scared me before, Laura."

The two leaders locked eyes for a moment, each flashing back to unpleasant memories.

She spoke first. "Alright, enough of that. It's time for me to get you patched up." She picked up the towel and gently ran it over his face, trying to clear away the blood so she could see where to first direct her attention. She then dabbed peroxide on a square of gauze and began the not small task of cleaning each jagged cut.

He winced at the first touch but was otherwise content to lie quietly as her fingers gently brushed his face. He would never get tired of feeling her warmth near him. Warm meant alive and he thanked the Gods and the half Cylon baby and even Baltar every day that she still was. The cliche of "you don't know what you have until it's gone" didn't have to come true to teach him that lesson, but it almost had.

He let out an involuntary guttural noise as he tried, for the thousandth time, to clear from his head the image of her lying helplessly in a hospital bed, gasping for breath.

Her voice was soft and comforting when she broke the silence. "Hey, what's racing around in that brain of yours?" She wiped away a single rogue tear tracking down his cheek. "You're messing with my handiwork here." He opened his eyes and saw her green ones staring back inquisitively.

"I guess I'm getting sentimental in my old age, Laura. Sentimental and, what was it you said earlier? Crazy?"

She narrowed her eyes as she considered his words. There was something tearing this great man apart, something that flashed every now and then and then disappeared as quickly as it came. She'd resigned herself to waiting until he was ready to let her in on his pain.

"Yes. Crazy was the word. Luckily, it didn't get you killed this time." She dabbed one last bit of ointment of a cut above his left eye. "All done, Admiral. You are going to be quite a sight when you brief the Quorum tomorrow morning."

He groaned out loud, drawing a musical laugh from Laura as she rose from the couch and padded toward the kitchen.

"Damn it, I'd forgotten about that." He turned his head slightly to locate her with his eyes. Realizing that motion didn't feel much better than it had before, he gave up and settled for lobbing his joke in her general direction.

"Do you think my nurse could write me an excuse note? I hear she's pretty close with the President of the Twelve Colonies."

She appeared in front of him, holding a glass of water, an ice pack, and two small pills in her fingers. She looked down sternly at him over her glasses as she handed him the painkillers and glass and waited for him to swallow them.

Laura's eyes sparkled as she answered. "Oh, I don't think a face full of self-inflicted injuries is going to be a good enough excuse for the president. From what I hear, the woman's a hard ass."

He laughed and reached up to take the arm she was offering, the departure from the couch much easier than the approach had been. "Come on you crazy, stubborn, sentimental old man. Let's get you to your rack and this pack on your eye. Sleep will make it worse at first but better in the long run."

He hesitated as they reached the rack, unsure if the closeness between himself and the president extended to her tucking him into bed. Evidently it did, as he found her helping him settle into a sitting position, taking his tags from around his neck, and gesturing for him to take off his now blood spattered uniform pants.

He shot her a pointed look, about to make a crack about the situation, but she silenced him with her eyes.

"You heard right, by the way. That President Roslin _is_ a hard ass," he said, hoping to cover for almost tripping over that increasingly unclear line of appropriateness.

"Indeed. Lie down, Bill, and put this over your eye."

"And what about you, Laura? You're more than welcome to stay here, erm, on the couch or…"

She answered him by pulling a nearby chair close to the bed. "You've forgotten already that you could have a concussion. I'll be right here, waking you every hour and making sure you're up nice and early for the meeting with the Quorum in the morning."

Bill thought about objecting to her keeping watch by his bedside but she was already fussing with the ice pack from her perch. He set about the task of getting his aching body into a comfortable position. When he finally gave up, he looked up at his self-appointed protector.

"Thank you, Laura."

She nodded, put her hand over his, and flipped off the lamp.


End file.
